


Under Cover of Darkness

by starbursts_and_kisses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya the Queenslayer, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds her on the docks of Braavos and saves her, and though she is no Lannister, she pays her debt all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Cover of Darkness

_Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ she told herself as she ran for her life. Behind her, the world was bathed in a fiery inferno and the air was filled with the screams of dying men. She could feel the flames reaching out for her, its tendrils snagging at her clothes and her exposed flesh, but she pushed herself harder and ran as fast as she dared, never once stopping to catch her breath.

_Swift as a deer. Quick as a snake._ There was a fierce, stabbing pain in her back and for one horrible moment, her knees gave way and she found herself falling. Her veins were on fire and her hands were slick with blood, but she braced herself against the ground and forced herself to get up. _Just a little bit further_ , she thought. _I’m almost there._  

_Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water._ A choked sob found its way out of her throat as the memory of what she had done came back to her. She remembered the dream she had the night before – carved red eyes weeping blood, the shadow of a wolf silently howling at the moon, and a familiar figure half-buried in the snow, eyes closed and skin as pale as death – and the feeling that lingered with her long after she woke up. Then as suddenly as that, everything came back to her. She was no longer No One. She was Arya of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, with the blood of the First Men in her veins, and winter was coming. 

_Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine._ For years the Faceless Men had been her family, but she killed them all the same, every last one of them, without a moment’s hesitation. And she had not looked back. She told herself that she had no choice, that they wouldn’t let her leave, and it was either them or her, but there was a hole in her chest growing larger every minute and the knowledge that she was past redemption now tore at her. 

_The man who fears losing has already lost._ Tears blurred her vision, and twice more she stumbled, but this time she knew she would not make it. She thought of her brother, of the North, of winter in the godswood and playing capture the castle in the snow with her siblings, and an infinite sadness suddenly gripped her. _It isn’t fair_ , she sobbed. _It can’t end like this. Not when I’m almost there._

The last thing she saw before the world went black was the sea, calling out to her in shades of black and grey that reminded her of home.

 

* * *

 

Mere moments before his ship sailed away from Braavos, he found her lying in a pool of her own blood, a tiny beacon of death half-illuminated by moonlight, with ashes in her hair and lips stained red as sin. Her clothes were singed, there was a dagger buried between her shoulder blades, and in her hands she gripped the hilt of a slender blade. 

_Surely she must be dead,_ Young Griff thought, yet as he knelt next to her on the ground and pressed his fingers against her wrist, he felt it. Faint and soft as a butterfly’s kiss, but it was there all the same. A pulse. He gingerly lifted her in his arms, careful of her injury, but as he did so he felt the girl give a shuddering gasp. Her eyelids fluttered open, and suddenly he found himself drowning in a sea of grey. In those mirrored pools of light he saw a myriad of emotions – hurt, sadness, anger, determination - and the force of it him hit him so hard it almost made him stagger. 

“Are you Death?” she whispered in a voice that broke his heart. 

Her face blanched as though even the act of speaking pained her, yet she reached for his arm and held it in a feeble grip, her knuckles bone white against his lightly tanned skin. 

“Not today, Death. Please. Not today.” And with those words, she fell limp against his arms and said no more.

 

* * *

 

“Will she live?” 

Haldon Halfmaester stared back at the young prince, his eyes tired and red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and shook his head. “I cannot truly say. I have staunched the bleeding and sewn her wound as best as I can, but only the gods know if she will make it through the night,” he admitted, his voice weary. 

Griff frowned, and the healer saw what little hope he had left slowly die out. 

At the threshold of the cabin, Haldon paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I’ve never seen someone cling to life so badly,” he confessed. “The girl is a fighter, if nothing else. For her sake, I hope she survives this.” 

“Thank you, Halfmaester. Let’s hope she does.” 

And with that, he was left alone with the injured girl. They had her placed in a narrow bunk, a thin white cotton sheet covering her torso, and against the glare of the burning oil lamps her skin looked as pale as molten wax. They’ve given her milk of the poppy for her pain, and as she lay there sleeping, he saw that her face was calm and peaceful, as though nothing could hurt her. 

Tentatively, his fingers brushed against her cheekbones, warmth seeping from his fingertips to her icy cold skin. “You must get better,” he whispered even though he knew she couldn’t hear him. He did not know why, but ever since he found her that night, dying so close to the sea, he felt like he had somehow become responsible for her. He had no idea who she was, what she was running from, or why someone had thought to harm her. All he knew was that she had needed help and he had given it to her. 

A strange feeling came over him as he watched her. Jon Connington thought he was a fool for bringing her aboard the _Shy Maid_ and told him as much, but even though a part of him knew that Jon was right – after all, what decent maiden would carry a sword by her side - Griff could not find it in his heart to leave her. _She is just a girl_ , he reasoned. A beautiful, lost girl who may or may not be dying, but a girl nonetheless. _She can’t be a danger to anyone._

Several weeks later, Griff would realize just how very, very wrong he was.

 

* * *

 

She dreamed that she was Nymeria again. She was in a forest with dozens of her pack, feasting on men with black cloaks torn to shreds, her hind legs buried in thick sheets of snow. There was a recognizable scent in the air, one that she knew belonged to one of her brothers – not the fake ones that hunted with her day and night, but her _real_ brother, the white one who had no voice - but then without warning the scene changed and Arya found herself back in her own body, looking down on her father’s tombstone. 

Generations of cold Starks surrounded her, their lips moving silently as they mouthed the words “Winter is coming.” They were pressing her on all sides, choking her with frozen winter roses, and she was screaming and pleading and slashing at them with Needle, but they just kept coming, and for every person she knocked down, two quickly rose up to replace them. 

Then all of a sudden, her enemies vanished, and in their place stood the Kindly Man. Only, he wasn’t smiling anymore. Half of his face had melted, his skull peeking out of charred, flayed skin, and his eyes were two empty sockets that stared at her with unfiltered hate and accusation. 

“You killed me,” he rasped. 

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Bony hands reached for her and slowly she felt herself sinking to the ground. This time she didn’t fight back. She was so tired – so fucking tired of fighting and hating and living in a world where everyone just _leaves_ – and now all she wanted to do was to lie down and sleep forever. In her mind’s eye, she saw her father, her mother, and her brother Robb smiling at her, inviting her, and beyond that, peace. 

She opened her arms wide, allowing the warmth to spread to her chest and envelop her, but from far away, she heard a faint voice calling her ( _“You must get better”_ ), tugging her back to the realm of the living. She tried to resist, tried to tell the voice to shut up and let her rest, but whoever was calling her was adamant, and in the end, she felt herself give in. 

With a gasp, Arya Stark woke up, eyes wide and heart racing, the taste of blood still fresh in her mouth.

 

* * *

 

There were two things she noticed the moment she regained consciousness. One was that Needle was lying on the bedside table to her left, sheathed and undamaged. And second, there was a man slumped on the chair next to her, and _he was holding her hand._  

For a moment, she considered the fact that she might be hallucinating. Or maybe she’d died and gone to hell after all. But if that was so, then how come there was pain, such blinding, sudden, and all consuming pain? Everything _hurt_. Her chest felt tight, every nerve in her body was on fire, and when she tried to rise from the bed, a wave of dizziness came over her and she almost fainted. 

But she was Arya Stark. She had survived her father’s beheading, made her way across enemy camp undetected, and seen and endured things no girl her age could ever hope to experience. She was no weakling. So with trembling hands and gritted teeth, she reached for Needle. 

When the man woke up, she was ready for him. He had beautiful eyes a deep shade of purple, but they widened all the same once he registered the sight of her sword pointed at his throat. 

“I… What are you doing?” the man yelled frantically. He had the look of someone who had never been threatened by a girl before. “Is this the proper way to greet the person who saved you?” 

Arya’s sword arm never wavered. “Who are you and where am I?” she asked him in rough Braavosi. 

The man with the purple eyes swallowed. “My name is Griff and you’re aboard the _Shy Maid_ ,” he told her in the same language, his eyes never leaving her sword. “Now can you _please_ put that thing away? I swear to the Seven, I’m not here to harm you.” 

Syrio Forel had taught her to see with her eyes, to look beyond what is obvious, and that, more than anything, was what made her let go of Needle. The stranger’s face was an open book, and although she could tell that he was clearly lying about his name, the rest of his words were said in all honesty. 

“Where is this ship headed?” 

“Volantis. And from there, we sail for Westeros,” Griff answered. 

Arya exhaled, hope blooming within her chest before she had the chance to extinguish it. _Home._ Was it possible that after all these years, she was finally going home? 

“Now it’s my turn to ask you something,” Griff suddenly announced, looking at Arya with such intensity it made her feel uneasy. “Who are you?” 

“No One. I am No One.”

 

* * *

_She doesn’t look like no one to me,_ Griff inwardly told himself the first time he saw the girl emerge from her guest quarters, clad in breeches and an overly large white tunic belted at the waist. At first she’d been offered a simple dress that had once belonged to Septa Lemore to replace her tattered garments, but upon seeing it she’d given him such a scathing look that he found himself offering her his spare clothes instead. And now seeing her above deck with her cheeks a healthy shade of pink and her short, brown locks made messy by the wind, he was shocked by how beautiful she was. 

Duckfield obviously agreed with him. “Why, aren’t you a pretty little thing. A pretty girl with a pretty steel,” he’d said when he spotted the girl walking about with that beloved sword of hers strapped to her hip. “Where did you get such a finely forged blade, my lady?” 

The girl moved so fast Duckfield barely had time to react, and the next thing he knew, she had him cornered, the tip of her blade poised above the area where his heart should be. “I’m no lady,” she growled, eyes burning with a fierceness that Griff found strangely attractive. 

The knight laughed so hard Griff thought his belly was about to burst. But that meant that he liked her, and for that, Griff was glad. After that, he often found the two of them sparring together, the girl winning most of the time despite her still healing shoulder. More than once Griff caught the challenging stare she gave him, but he refused to join them. He liked it better when he was watching her. He liked the way she would angle her body sideways, making it difficult for her opponent to wound her. He liked the alien way she moved and the mad glint that shone in her eyes whenever Duckfield scored a hit. He liked the way the sea spray touched her delicate face, giving her the appearance of a water maiden. He liked a lot of things about her, he was beginning to realize. 

Ysilla, the ship captain’s wife, also took a shine to her, frequently giving her cookies and talking to her about things they’d seen in their travels. Even Septa Lemore liked her well enough, though they barely spoke. Upon learning that she was a septa, the girl smiled and said, “I knew a septa once. I gave her nightmares.” 

Jon Connington, though, was another matter. When Griff had first introduced her to his father, Jon had turned an astonishing shade of white, and there was a stricken look in his face that Griff had never seen before. But when he asked him what was wrong, the old man just shook his head and muttered something about ghosts. 

“I mislike the looks of that girl, Griff. What if she had been sent here to kill you?” Jon speculated, his eyes shining with mistrust. “She is a danger to us all. We would do well to be rid of her once we reach Volantis.” 

“That’s impossible. No one knows who I am, and even if by some remote chance someone discovers the truth, I highly doubt they’d send an injured girl child to slit my throat,” Griff argued, his jaw clenched stubbornly. “No, father. I’m taking the girl with us to Westeros.” 

“Are you mad, boy?” 

“No, but I’m starting to think that you might be.” 

Jon shook his head despairingly. “You do not understand because you are young and far too trusting,” he told him. “I knew a girl like her once, Young Griff. She was young too, and lovely. So lovely men started a war in her name.”

 

* * *

 

He found her waiting for him in his chambers, looking like something that came out of his dreams. She was sitting cross-legged on his bed, idly flipping a dagger from hand to hand, but when she saw him, her eyes gleamed like newly polished Valyrian steel, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely. 

The girl leaned forward, her face so close he could have easily closed the distance and kissed her. “Have I ever thanked you for saving my life?” she murmured softly. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?” 

He gulped, his gaze seemingly drawn to her lips, and for one agonizing second, he thought… He thought that she was going to… But before he could finish his train of thought, the girl spoke again. 

“The Red God takes what is his, lovely man. And only death may pay for life. You saved me, that night you found me in Braavos. You stole a death from the Red God. Now we have to give it back.” She held up one slender finger and tenderly laid it on his cheek. “Speak one name and I shall do the rest. One life I will give you – no more, no less.” 

“What… what are you… You can’t mean that. Are you honestly suggesting that…” 

She nodded. “One life. One name.” 

He wondered who she truly was, to offer him such things. Was she as dangerous as Jon said she was? “No,” he declared resolutely. “If it’s thanks you want for saving your life, then I shall have a name. Yours. Give me your name and consider the debt paid.” 

“Ah, that I cannot do.” 

“Why not?” he cried. 

She smiled that sad smile he was beginning to hate. “For the same reason you can’t tell me yours.” 

 

* * *

 

It was the hour of the wolf and Griff could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind kept drifting back to his last conversation with the girl, replaying the way she’d looked at him – as though she could read every thought in his pretty head - and so he’d tossed and turned in his bed, growing restless with every minute, until finally he could take it no more.  

He stumbled towards the deck, hands inside his pockets, and instinctively looked up. And there she was, looking as silent and as deadly as ever. She had somehow climbed her way to one of the lower masts, and in her hands she clutched a wineskin. Briefly, he wondered how she’d managed to infiltrate Duck’s hidden stash of liquor. 

“Drinking alone?” he remarked. 

She shrugged before gracefully leaping in the air, her feet making no sound as she landed in front of him. “It helps with the dreams,” she answered as she offered him the wineskin. 

He took it, drank his fill, and handed it back to her. “What kind of dreams?” 

“Bad ones, filled with death and killing.” A haunted look came over her, and against her will, she shivered. She looked impossibly small then, and fragile, and he felt a sudden urge to wrap his arms around her. 

“I can’t sleep myself,” he admitted. 

“Have you thought about what I’d asked you?” 

Of course he thought of nothing else, but he dared not say so. He shook his head instead. “I can’t. Please, speak no more of this,” he pleaded. 

“Surely there is someone in this world you want dead?” 

“There is no one.” But that was a lie, and she knew that as well. The air grew heavy with silence then, and the only sounds that could be heard were the swishing of wine as they passed the wineskin back and forth. They drank everything away - all the lies, their fears, and their doubts. They drank until there was no more wine left. Only then did Griff break the silence. 

“Daenerys Targaryen.” 

He whispered it so softly he doubted she had heard him. But there was a glimmer in her eye and the faint hint of a smile that suggested otherwise. He did not know whether it was the wine that loosened his tongue or if he was simply drunk off her presence, but the moment he’d said the words, he wished he could take them back. 

Jon had told him reports of his aunt’s activities in Meereen, and though they surmised that she had no plans of sailing towards Westeros any time soon, Griff knew that it was only a matter of time. She had dragons, loyal followers, and a large army, and that was what mattered. 

_But she’s your aunt,_ a tiny voice inside his head objected. True, she was the only living family he had left, and that mattered as well. By killing her, he would be a kinslayer, and there can be no worse crime than that. Deep inside his heart though, he knew. There is room for only one Targaryen in this world, and Griff intended for it to be him. 

But perhaps the real reason why he said his aunt’s name was because there was a part of him that believed that it could never happen. The girl was as fierce as a wolf and as brave as a lion; however, against Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons, what hope could there be of success? She would surely die. He may have saved her, but she would die by his hand all the same. 

“Wait, I take it back,” Griff stumbled over his words, fear clawing at his throat. “I’ll name someone else. Just… let me take those words back.” 

“You cannot unsay the words, dragon prince.” 

His eyes widened at that. She made a move towards him, her face looming closer and closer, so close he could smell her – a mixture of wine and sea salt on her skin, and a hint of something wild, something that made him think of snow and pine needles – and then her lips brushed against his ear, sending sparks of heat coursing throughout his body, and her voice dropped to a whisper as she said, “ _Valar morgulis.”_

After that she kissed him, right there underneath the moon and the stars. Her lips were soft and warm against his, and she tasted like freedom, danger, and unspoken promises. 

 

* * *

 

The day their ship landed on the docks of Volantis, she was gone. Her bed was empty, and there was nothing that suggested that she had ever been there in the first place. Griff went mad searching for her, and though he’d questioned Jon again and again, in the end it was no use. They would not find her. 

Two months after that, they received word that the Mother of Dragons was dead. No one had wanted to believe it at first, least of all Jon, but they soon realized that there was truth to those talks. There were a dozen witnesses that said she was killed by one of her own dragons, the black one that loved her best, the one named after her beloved _khal._ Soon after that, the dragons flew off, their whereabouts unknown. 

Was it sorcery that did it or did the beast simply turn on its mistress? No one could say. But Griff thought of the girl with the sad eyes and no name, and _knew._

**Author's Note:**

> So I kind of like the idea of Arya being a badass warg. And yes, I shamelessly stole some of Jaqen H'ghar's lines from A Clash of Kings.
> 
> Man, we need more Arya/Aegon fanfics in this fandom. Sigh.


End file.
